Death Comes for the Archbishop, by Willa Cather

Prologue: At Rome

One summer evening in the year 1848, three Cardinals and a missionary Bishop from America were dining together in
the gardens of a villa in the Sabine hills, overlooking Rome. The villa was famous for the fine view from its terrace.
The hidden garden in which the four men sat at table lay some twenty feet below the south end of this terrace, and was
a mere shelf of rock, overhanging a steep declivity planted with vineyards. A flight of stone steps connected it with
the promenade above. The table stood in a sanded square, among potted orange and oleander trees, shaded by spreading
ilex oaks that grew out of the rocks overhead. Beyond the balustrade was the drop into the air, and far below the
landscape stretched soft and undulating; there was nothing to arrest the eye until it reached Rome itself.

It was early when the Spanish Cardinal and his guests sat down to dinner. The sun was still good for an hour of
supreme splendour, and across the shining folds of country the low profile of the city barely fretted the skyline —
indistinct except for the dome of St. Peter’s, bluish grey like the flattened top of a great balloon, just a flash of
copper light on its soft metallic surface. The Cardinal had an eccentric preference for beginning his dinner at this
time in the late afternoon, when the vehemence of the sun suggested motion. The light was full of action and had a
peculiar quality of climax — of splendid finish. It was both intense and soft, with a ruddiness as of much-multiplied
candlelight, an aura of red in its flames. It bored into the ilex trees, illuminating their mahogany trunks and
blurring their dark foliage; it warmed the bright green of the orange trees and the rose of the oleander blooms to
gold; sent congested spiral patterns quivering over the damask and plate and crystal. The churchmen kept their
rectangular clerical caps on their heads to protect them from the sun. The three Cardinals wore black cassocks with
crimson pipings and crimson buttons, the Bishop a long black coat over his violet vest.

They were talking business; had met, indeed, to discuss an anticipated appeal from the Provincial Council at
Baltimore for the founding of an Apostolic Vicarate in New Mexico — a part of North America recently annexed to the
United States. This new territory was vague to all of them, even to the missionary Bishop. The Italian and French
Cardinals spoke of it as Le Mexique, and the Spanish host referred to it as “New Spain.” Their interest in the
projected Vicarate was tepid, and had to be continually revived by the missionary, Father Ferrand; Irish by birth,
French by ancestry — a man of wide wanderings and notable achievement in the New World, an Odysseus of the Church. The
language spoken was French — the time had already gone by when Cardinals could conveniently discuss contemporary
matters in Latin.

The French and Italian Cardinals were men in vigorous middle life — the Norman full-belted and ruddy, the Venetian
spare and sallow and hook-nosed. Their host, García María de Allande, was still a young man. He was dark in colouring,
but the long Spanish face, that looked out from so many canvases in his ancestral portrait gallery, was in the young
Cardinal much modified through his English mother. With his caffè oscuro eyes, he had a fresh, pleasant English mouth,
and an open manner.

During the latter years of the reign of Gregory XVI, de Allande had been the most influential man at the Vatican;
but since the death of Gregory, two years ago, he had retired to his country estate. He believed the reforms of the new
Pontiff impractical and dangerous, and had withdrawn from politics, confining his activities to work for the Society
for the Propagation of the Faith — that organization which had been so fostered by Gregory. In his leisure the Cardinal
played tennis. As a boy, in England, he had been passionately fond of this sport. Lawn tennis had not yet come into
fashion; it was a formidable game of indoor tennis the Cardinal played. Amateurs of that violent sport came from Spain
and France to try their skill against him.

The missionary, Bishop Ferrand, looked much older than any of them, old and rough — except for his clear, intensely
blue eyes. His diocese lay within the icy arms of the Great Lakes, and on his long, lonely horseback rides among his
missions the sharp winds had bitten him well. The missionary was here for a purpose, and he pressed his point. He ate
more rapidly than the others and had plenty of time to plead his cause, — finished each course with such dispatch that
the Frenchman remarked he would have been an ideal dinner companion for Napoleon.

The Bishop laughed and threw out his brown hands in apology. “Likely enough I have forgot my manners. I am
preoccupied. Here you can scarcely understand what it means that the United States has annexed that enormous territory
which was the cradle of the Faith in the New World. The Vicarate of New Mexico will be in a few years raised to an
Episcopal See, with jurisdiction over a country larger than Central and Western Europe, barring Russia. The Bishop of
that See will direct the beginning of momentous things.”

“Beginnings,” murmured the Venetian, “there have been so many. But nothing ever comes from over there but trouble
and appeals for money.”

The missionary turned to him patiently. “Your Eminence, I beg you to follow me. This country was evangelized in
fifteen hundred, by the Franciscan Fathers. It has been allowed to drift for nearly three hundred years and is not yet
dead. It still pitifully calls itself a Catholic country, and tries to keep the forms of religion without instruction.
The old mission churches are in ruins. The few priests are without guidance or discipline. They are lax in religious
observance, and some of them live in open concubinage. If this Augean stable is not cleansed, now that the territory
has been taken over by a progressive government, it will prejudice the interests of the Church in the whole of North
America.”

“But these missions are still under the jurisdiction of Mexico, are they not?” inquired the Frenchman.

“In the See of the Bishop of Durango?” added María de Allande.

The missionary sighed. “Your Eminence, the Bishop of Durango is an old man; and from his seat to Santa Fé is a
distance of fifteen hundred English miles. There are no wagon roads, no canals, no navigable rivers. Trade is carried
on by means of pack-mules, over treacherous trails. The desert down there has a peculiar horror; I do not mean thirst,
nor Indian massacres, which are frequent. The very floor of the world is cracked open into countless canyons and
arroyos, fissures in the earth which are sometimes ten feet deep, sometimes a thousand. Up and down these stony chasms
the traveller and his mules clamber as best they can. It is impossible to go far in any direction without crossing
them. If the Bishop of Durango should summon a disobedient priest by letter, who shall bring the Padre to him? Who can
prove that he ever received the summons? The post is carried by hunters, fur trappers, gold seekers, whoever happens to
be moving on the trails.”

The Norman Cardinal emptied his glass and wiped his lips.

“And the inhabitants, Father Ferrand? If these are the travellers, who stays at home?”

“Some thirty Indian nations, Monsignor, each with its own customs and language, many of them fiercely hostile to
each other. And the Mexicans, a naturally devout people. Untaught and unshepherded, they cling to the faith of their
fathers.”

“I have a letter from the Bishop of Durango, recommending his Vicar for this new post,” remarked María de
Allande.

“Your Eminence, it would be a great misfortune if a native priest were appointed; they have never done well in that
field. Besides, this Vicar is old. The new Vicar must be a young man, of strong constitution, full of zeal, and above
all, intelligent. He will have to deal with savagery and ignorance, with dissolute priests and political intrigue. He
must be a man to whom order is necessary — as dear as life.”

The Spaniard’s coffee-coloured eyes showed a glint of yellow as he glanced sidewise at his guest. “I suspect, from
your exordium, that you have a candidate — and that he is a French priest, perhaps?”

“You guess rightly, Monsignor. I am glad to see that we have the same opinion of French missionaries.”

“Yes,” said the Cardinal lightly, “they are the best missionaries. Our Spanish fathers made good martyrs, but the
French Jesuits accomplish more. They are the great organizers.”

“Better than the Germans?” asked the Venetian, who had Austrian sympathies.

“Oh, the Germans classify, but the French arrange! The French missionaries have a sense of proportion and rational
adjustment. They are always trying to discover the logical relation of things. It is a passion with them.” Here the
host turned to the old Bishop again. “But your Grace, why do you neglect this Burgundy? I had this wine brought up from
my cellar especially to warm away the chill of your twenty Canadian winters. Surely, you do not gather vintages like
this on the shores of the Great Lake Huron?”

The missionary smiled as he took up his untouched glass. “It is superb, your Eminence, but I fear I have lost my
palate for vintages. Out there, a little whisky, or Hudson Bay Company rum, does better for us. I must confess I
enjoyed the champagne in Paris. We had been forty days at sea, and I am a poor sailor.”

“Then we must have some for you.” He made a sign to his major-domo. “You like it very cold? And your new Vicar
Apostolic, what will he drink in the country of bison and serpents à sonnettes? And what will he eat?”

“He will eat dried buffalo meat and frijoles with chili, and he will be glad to drink water when he can get it. He
will have no easy life, your Eminence. That country will drink up his youth and strength as it does the rain. He will
be called upon for every sacrifice, quite possibly for martyrdom. Only last year the Indian pueblo of San Fernandez de
Taos murdered and scalped the American Governor and some dozen other whites. The reason they did not scalp their Padre,
was that their Padre was one of the leaders of the rebellion and himself planned the massacre. That is how things stand
in New Mexico!”

“Where is your candidate at present, Father?”

“He is a parish priest, on the shores of Lake Ontario, in my diocese. I have watched his work for nine years. He is
but thirty-five now. He came to us directly from the Seminary.”

“And his name is?”

“Jean Marie Latour.”

María de Allande, leaning back in his chair, put the tips of his long fingers together and regarded them
thoughtfully.

“Of course, Father Ferrand, the Propaganda will almost certainly appoint to this Vicarate the man whom the Council
at Baltimore recommends.”

“Ah yes, your Eminence; but a word from you to the Provincial Council, an inquiry, a suggestion — ”

“Would have some weight, I admit,” replied the Cardinal smiling. “And this Latour is intelligent, you say? What a
fate you are drawing upon him! But I suppose it is no worse than a life among the Hurons. My knowledge of your country
is chiefly drawn from the romances of Fenimore Cooper, which I read in English with great pleasure. But has your priest
a versatile intelligence? Any intelligence in matters of art, for example?”

“And what need would he have for that, Monsignor? Besides, he is from Auvergne.”

The three Cardinals broke into laughter and refilled their glasses. They were all becoming restive under the
monotonous persistence of the missionary.

“Listen,” said the host, “and I will relate a little story, while the Bishop does me the compliment to drink my
champagne. I have a reason for asking this question which you have answered so finally. In my family house in Valencia
I have a number of pictures by the great Spanish painters, collected chiefly by my great-grandfather, who was a man of
perception in these things and, for his time, rich. His collection of El Greco is, I believe, quite the best in Spain.
When my progenitor was an old man, along came one of these missionary priests from New Spain, begging. All missionaries
from the Americas were inveterate beggars, then as now, Bishop Ferrand. This Franciscan had considerable success, with
his tales of pious Indian converts and struggling missions. He came to visit at my great-grandfather’s house and
conducted devotions in the absence of the Chaplain. He wheedled a good sum of money out of the old man, as well as
vestments and linen and chalices — he would take anything — and he implored my grandfather to give him a painting from
his great collection, for the ornamentation of his mission church among the Indians. My grandfather told him to choose
from the gallery, believing the priest would covet most what he himself could best afford to spare. But not at all; the
hairy Franciscan pounced upon one of the best in the collection; a young St. Francis in meditation, by El Greco, and
the model for the saint was one of the very handsome Dukes of Albuquerque. My grandfather protested; tried to persuade
the fellow that some picture of the Crucifixion, or a martyrdom, would appeal more strongly to his redskins. What would
a St. Francis, of almost feminine beauty, mean to the scalp-takers?

“All in vain. The missionary turned upon his host with a reply which has become a saying in our family: ‘You refuse
me this picture because it is a good picture. It is too good for God, but it is not too good for you.’

“He carried off the painting. In my grandfather’s manuscript catalogue, under the number and title of the St.
Francis, is written: Given to Fray Teodocio, for the glory of God, to enrich his mission church at Pueblo de Cia, among
the savages of New Spain.

“It is because of this lost treasure, Father Ferrand, that I happened to have had some personal correspondence with
the Bishop of Durango. I once wrote the facts to him fully. He replied to me that the mission at Cia was long ago
destroyed and its furnishings scattered. Of course the painting may have been ruined in a pillage or massacre. On the
other hand, it may still be hidden away in some crumbling sacristy or smoky wigwam. If your French priest had a
discerning eye, now, and were sent to this Vicarate, he might keep my El Greco in mind.”

The Bishop shook his head. “No, I can’t promise you — I do not know. I have noticed that he is a man of severe and
refined tastes, but he is very reserved. Down there the Indians do not dwell in wigwams, your Eminence,” he added
gently.

“No matter, Father. I see your redskins through Fenimore Cooper, and I like them so. Now let us go to the terrace
for our coffee and watch the evening come on.”

The Cardinal led his guests up the narrow stairway. The long gravelled terrace and its balustrade were blue as a
lake in the dusky air. Both sun and shadows were gone. The folds of russet country were now violet. Waves of rose and
gold throbbed up the sky from behind the dome of the Basilica.

As the churchmen walked up and down the promenade, watching the stars come out, their talk touched upon many
matters, but they avoided politics, as men are apt to do in dangerous times. Not a word was spoken of the Lombard war,
in which the Pope’s position was so anomalous. They talked instead of a new opera by young Verdi, which was being sung
in Venice; of the case of a Spanish dancing-girl who had lately become a religious and was said to be working miracles
in Andalusia. In this conversation the missionary took no part, nor could he even follow it with much interest. He
asked himself whether he had been on the frontier so long that he had quite lost his taste for the talk of clever men.
But before they separated for the night María de Allande spoke a word in his ear, in English.

“You are distrait, Father Ferrand. Are you wishing to unmake your new Bishop already? It is too late. Jean Marie
Latour — am I right?”